


Buzzard Waltz

by BugTongue, Lizardlicks



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fictional Portrayals of Voodoo/Mysticism, Humanstuck, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Trans Character, Wild West AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BugTongue/pseuds/BugTongue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardlicks/pseuds/Lizardlicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The peaceful, pious life of the preacher's son has grown old to Kankri.  He chafes under the Cross, and has taken scripture to a form of rebellion.  When Cronus Ampora blows into town he brings trouble with him, but Kankri thinks he might bring opportunity too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buzzard Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Before Reading:
> 
> Hi! Thanks for clicking on this fic, you've no doubt come for the awesome crokris, and I applaud your excellent taste in terrible ships. We would like to take a moment to establish some expectations first. This work is set in a fictional town, in the Texas/New Mexico/Arizona/Nevada area, somewhere around 1870-1890. This fictional west is similar to, but not exactly like the west from our history. Many of the same ethnic groups exist as they were, and much of the politics remain, but technology and magic may be a bit different. So too are many of the attitudes of the time still present, many not very progressive by current standards. Specific things that will come up in this story include, but may not be limited to gender dysphoria, purposeful and accidental misgendering, casual racism, sexism, and homophobia. Also, Cronus is Cronus. So there's that. If any of those things will squick or trigger you, I advise turning back. If you're still with us this far, thanks again!
> 
> Secondly, while we've tried to do our research and get portrayals of ethnic and indigenous groups accurate, we're neither historians, nor members of most of these races, so if we fuck something up, please let us know so we can fix it. Hey, okay, thanks a for reading that, you're good to go!

You just killed a man.  Your heart is pounding so hard it’s going to kick down your teeth and run away, because you murdered a man in plain view of the whole god forsaken town.  And they’ve gone to send a wire to your father.

Your fists hurt when you clench them, but it’s a good kind of pain.  Different from the constriction in your chest, that feeling where you can’t get air into your lungs no matter how hard or deep you breathe.  You beat a man’s face in for insulting your honor.  This is going to be the last straw, you know it.  Your father is not a lenient man, not a kind or overly affectionate one.  What he is, is wealthy, and he will make this go away, but he’s going exact a worse punishment than the law would ever do.  You’d rather face the gallows, you’d rather _hang_!  But no one will give you that option, so you take the better one.  The brighter one. 

You have a couple nice suits, but you’ll have to buy more.  You got blood on the cuff of this one’s sleeve and that’s a travesty, it was so perfectly tailored.  They hardly take up room in the bottom of a suitcase when you fold them and lay them in all proper.  You up end a jewelry box on top, all the flashy trinkets spilling out like a waterfall of gold and cut gems; Midas’ fountain.  It’s nothing you’ll use, but there are plenty of other people who will pay well for things they covet.  It’s not enough though.  Nothing greases axles and doors like cold hard cash.  You’ve been saving, of course, putting aside here and there for... for this actually.  You just didn’t plan on being in quite so big a rush.  Oh well, no helping it now. 

There’s a small lockbox under the stair, and you know where the old man keeps the key.  It’s got three fat rolls of bills, and even better, a box of ammunition.  It goes to the gun on the mantle.  Your palms are sweating now; you take the whole box and stash it with everything else.  If you knew the combination for the big safe in the den, if you had more time, you’d stuff your bags full, but the seconds are ticking by.  Just one thing more and you have to leave.

Your father’s gun sits on the mantle flanked by trophies and honors from wars of conquest, even if only a few came from the actual war.  You held that gun when you were still too small to get your fingers all the way around the grip.  You learned to shoot with a different one, but it’s sat in a place of honor all your life, high above you where you’d have to look up at it.  A symbol of your old man’s authority, earned in blood.  Now, when you pick it up, your fingers close around it proper.  It’s heavy, but not as much as you were expecting.  It’s nothing compared to the weight of choice and change pressing on you now, urging you forward. 

There’s nothing left to stop you.  Who’s going to stand in front of you now?

“Rhe?” 

You almost put a slug through your brother.  He’s leaning all drowsy on the door frame and blinking at you without his glasses.  “Rhe, ou byen?   What’re you doin’ up?”   

“Fine, Eri, everythin’s fine.  Go back to bed.”  The gun isn’t loaded, you’re sure of it, but that doesn’t stop the oil slick churn in your gut from knowing you thought about shooting your own damn kin for even half a second.  You keep the revolver angled down and away, behind you where he can’t see it, and pray he doesn’t notice anything is amiss. 

“You’re bleeding,” he points out.  Your free hand moves up to touch the cuts over your brow before you even think about it. 

“Jus’ bumped my head is all.” 

“You w’re out drinkin’ again, weren’t you.”  He smirks, the corner of his smug little mouth twitching up.  “Papa’s gonna switch you when he finds out.” 

“We’ll see about that.”  You want to fire back with something snappier, but a thunderous knock at the front door makes you both jump. 

“Get that, Eri, I ain’t in a state fit for bein’ seen.”

“And I am?” he grumbles and holds out his arms.  It’s true, all he’s got is a night shirt.   

Your face goes red.  “Well, send them away then!”

He puffs out an exasperated sigh and starts sulking in the direction of the foyer as the pounding continues.  “Fine.  Probably here because of you anyway.  At least go take off those stupid pants, you look ridiculous.” 

It’s immature, but you wrinkle your nose and stick your tongue out at his retreating back as he goes anyway.  Outside, someone shouts.  You’re out of time. 

Once your brother is out of sight, you stash the revolver in the case with everything else, and dash for the kitchen exit.  The staff is all asleep, there’s not even a peep from the dogs.  Out back the grounds seem to stretch in endless silver waves under the moonlight right up until they plunge into the black wall of treeline.  Nothing that way but swamp and ‘gators.  And those Megido girls.  You shudder thinking about them.  Had to go to the Handmaid a few months ago for one of your problems.  Her little drink worked, but it cost a pretty dime, and you were creeped the fuck out to boot. 

You blow a kiss in her direction just in case she catches you having unkind thoughts and step into the stables.  The horses are all asleep too, but you click into the dark of one stall until your pretty sorrel gelding comes nosing up for treats.  His ears flick, and he tosses his head in confusion when you lead him out and saddle him up, but he’s quiet.  Not the fastest horse, but placid and eager to please.  He doesn’t make a sound when you hoist yourself up one handed, suitcase clutched tightly in the other, not one snort or nicker when you walk him out past his sleeping friends, and ease him into a trot.

Once you’re sure no one is paying you any mind, you put your boots to his flank and let him have his head.  The evening air whips cool and clean past your face, strangely void of the sticking swamp air tonight.  For the first time in- in a long while, longer than you can clearly recall, the tightness in you eases.  When the sun rises hours later, it’s behind you, warming your back.   

You’re heading West.


End file.
